I remember the shock of pulling my body through ice water. Not the cold, my skin has shed the sensation, but the hurt. The banging of my body against barriers I hauled myself over before I was out, out, out, and then down, down, down on the grass. Miles left to go.
I did a Tough Mudder in 2015. That’s a ten-mile obstacle course race. You run and then every half mile or so you have to climb a wall or lift logs or slide into ice water or literally walk through electric wires to the finish. But it’s not something I talk about much, because it’s not something to brag about. I only bring it up in indignation. It was my ex’s idea to do it together, but I didn’t train as much as I should have, and my accomplishment of finishing was washed out by my failure to do final obstacles and having to walk the last few miles. I mean it was washed out in his eyes, at least. Because he told me. See? There’s that indignation.
After this race, I got a fever for the next few days and took pictures of how banged up my legs were — bruised and scratched and tired.
I don’t know why this memory feels so fresh today. I’m listening to another ultrarunning book, a sport that is so much about pushing yourself to your limits and then pushing those even further out. To me, it’s about finding out who you are. I get a little doe-eyed thinking about it.
So maybe that’s why my brain pushed this memory to the forefront: not the cold, but the hurt. Not the lack of will to keep going, but the inability to keep going. I told my body to run, and it would not run. A day that should have been a victory — the mental game I played at the beginning told me I could push through anything — turned into a scar. Even now I scratch at it and it bleeds.
Half of my heart wants to run more, further, to prove to 2015 me that she was strong after all (and she was, but she was not okay). To find that breaking point and break through it. The other half is terrified of what I’ll find if I push. Maybe I am the girl slow-walking the last mile, not even able to jog across the finish.
I don’t have much (any) desire to a Tough Mudder again, or any obstacle course. At least right now. I don’t need redemption in replaying out the past. I don’t need redemption at all. Because the truth is that failure was never about my muscles. It was about my relationship. See — there it is — indignation. And beneath it — hurt.
For a long time, I kept that with me. It stilled my legs, my motivation, my everything. But I don’t feel that when I move anymore. The only one I carry is myself. There’s your redemption.
With Love,
Natalie